


The Archives of Dream SMP

by Viryllian



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Gen, Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP Spoilers (Video Blogging RPF), One Shot Collection, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viryllian/pseuds/Viryllian
Summary: A collection of stories based in the Dream SMP universe, based on events and interactions of the members.-Character tags are pre-emptive if they are not yet in the collection, as I will likely write something involving most of the people in the story. No shipping pieces, unless it's a direct part of the story.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap
Kudos: 6





	1. Birth of a Monarch

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me simping for Minecrafters again, damn. 
> 
> This is meant to be a way for me to practice writing again, so any feedback would be rad. There isn't a continuous narrative, except for the one established by the Dream SMP through streams/tweets/smoke signals. So, the chapters won't be chronological. Will probably do some "throwback" pieces from pre-Manburg/Pogtopia war, though I'm unsure. We'll see how this goes, shall we?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George overhears the explosions from Manburg.

* * *

George

* * *

The distant sounds of explosions shook George to his core, as well as the inner walls of his newly built home. His foot glued itself to the tremors coursing through the floor, and his heart sunk into the deep pit of his stomach. Those noises, they came from Manburg.

In a rush, the man donned his armor and bolted out the door. The tensions in Manburg had been on a high for days now, leaving the Schlatt administration on their toes. Dream, too, after he started working with the president… 

“Dream—” George caught his breath remembering that his friend had gone into the capital for the day. His netherite boots slammed into the dirt as George began to sprint towards the rising plumes of smoke. What on earth happened while he was gone?

“George!”

George just about snapped his neck from the speed at which he turned towards the noise. In the distance, a figure stood, hunched, back to the ensuing chaos. George could tell from the voice alone that it was Dream. Relief rushed to his head like a tidal wave that nearly dropped him to his knees. George should not have worried— this was Dream, after all, one of the best fighters in the realm— but that did not stop him from bolting straight to him.

As soon as George reached his friend, he instinctively stuck his arms out. Just in time, too, as Dream nearly tumbled over, falling against George’s chest. Now that he was closer, George could see the burns on his exposed skin and armor charred black from the fires. The scent of gunpowder clung to Dream like an omen. “You’re hurt! I—” George fell to the ground from the weight of the taller man. “What happened? We need to get you help—”

“Not in L’Manburg,” Dream coughed out, as he untangled himself from the other man. His white mask, the one that he donned only when he went into battle, was smeared with ash, dirt, and something that looked much like blood. “We need to get away from here.”

Dream attempted to stand but cried out as his leg buckled beneath him. A quick glance over alerted George to the odd angle that Dream’s ankle was pointed. “Who did this to you?” The answer popped up in his head. “Those Pogtopia people… You stay here, and I’ll go get—”

“No!” George was jerked back to the ground when Dream grabbed his wrist. He had taken off his mask, and George could now see the cuts and bruises scattered across his pallid face. His green eyes were sharp, filled with an emotion that George could not pinpoint. “You can’t go to the city.”

Frustration made George grit his teeth and rip Dream’s hand off of his arm. “I’m tired of you acting all mysterious like this. You need help, and I need to know what _happened_ to Manburg.”

“You’ll get hurt,” Dream’s voice was somehow softer, easing a bit of George’s anger. “The city’s blown up, they’re killing people out there. That’s the last place I want to see you go to right now.”

“How did this even happen? You said you were going into the city to meet with Schlatt—” 

George fell silent. Everything makes sense now. Dream’s avoidant behavior in the days before, the silent streets in Manburg. The increase of potions, weapons, and pearls in the stock room. The all-too permanent-sounding goodbye that Dream offered as he walked out of the door. “You knew this attack was going to happen.”

“Geo—”

“You knew!” George jumped to his feet, his armor pieces clanking against one another. His fingers twitched towards his sheathed axe. “You knew that Manburg was going to be attacked and you just _left_ me out of the fight? What the hell, Dream!”

“I didn’t ‘leave you out,’” a petulant tone seeped into Dream’s voice. “Are you dumb? Do you not see what happened to me? I only barely got away.”

George pulled his axe out, pointing it at Dream. The taller man said nothing, only staring back at George with the indignation that the latter was all too familiar with. “If I was there, you’d be fine right now.”

“You don’t know that—”

“Yes, I do! You’re too cocky, you know that? You’re good, but you’re not an army.” 

“You don’t understand!” Dream grabbed the neck of George’s axe, pushing it away. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

“Keep me safe? Dream, I’m not a child, I know how to fight.”

Dream pulled the axe out of George’s hand and swung the blade into the dirt next to him. “This is not about that. Wilbur rigged the bombs to kill, and Techno’s finishing everybody off. The president’s dead. You would’ve been killed. And I… I don’t know what I would’ve done if you were.”

George knelt down and placed his hand on Dream’s knee. The man looked somber, a departure from his usual playful mannerisms. Even in the midst of war, Dream was never this serious. Hell, fear was hardly a word in his vocabulary, with how nonchalantly he would stroll into combat. Why was Dream so scared now? This was not either of their first battles, and both of them carried scars as proof. 

While George’s thoughts wandered, he felt something cold press into the back of his hand. An ender pearl. Instinctively, George flipped his hand over to hold it. “You have to get away now, George. Run away, and stay out of sight until this all blows over.” Dream was pleading now, another unusual act. George almost wanted his overconfident persona back.

“But what about you?” George asked this while staring at Dream’s bad leg. Running was not an option, and Dream looked too injured to use a pearl. Maybe he could hoist his friend over his shoulders… George began to try and pull Dream up.

In response, the man shook George’s arms off. “I’ll be fine!” The roar of a distant creature cut through Dream’s words. That strange emotion of fear blanched Dream’s face. “George, get out, now!”

“But you can’t get away!”

“Leave!” Dream yelled, whipping out a crossbow as something flew out from the capital. George felt his veins run cold as he realized what it was. The wither. Its malformed heads scoured the landscape for life, shooting out white balls of flame in every direction. Those creatures can only be summoned, and was the subject of every city’s nightmare. Destructive, merciless, unthinking. That was what a wither was. George reached for his own crossbow but was interrupted by Dream swinging an arm out in front of him.

“Please, get out of here!” Dream met George’s gaze, as serious as a heart attack. Then, a smile broke out on Dream’s face. Not a playful one like usual, but rather, one of defeat. Defeat… All George ever knew of Dream was as a victor, and seeing this sober acceptance of loss shot a chill down his spine. 

“You can’t fight a wither on your own, no matter how strong you are.” George cut in while Dream loaded his crossbow. “It’s downright suicide! At least let me fight with you.”

As the taller male put his mask back on over his stoic face, he said, “If you don’t make it out of here, then who else will be king?”

 _King_? He must be joking. But before George could work out a response, Dream grabbed the rim of the other’s chestplate and shoved him back. He could hardly shout out as he tumbled over from the weight of his armor, losing breath as his back slammed into the hard ground. 

Disoriented, George could only vaguely feel the rising heat of the air as more fireballs seared the area. Before he knew it, the wither cast a shadow over the pair, and a pained groan came from its heads as Dream shot a bolt into its torso. In retaliation, the wither let loose a fireball, headed straight for George. 

“Go!” Dream’s voice pierced his muddy head and shook him out of his paralysis. George rolled onto his knees and flung the pearl in his hand into the surrounding woods. Before he could help it, George’s eyes flicked back to his friend. The last thing he saw before his body was swept away was Dream’s armored back, engulfed in the white flames of the wither.

* * *


	2. Simply Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fundy reconnects with Wilbur's ghost.

* * *

Fundy

* * *

“Why are you doing this?”

The spectral image of Wilbur flickered as he turned to look at Fundy. His father, a formerly proud leader of a nation, was now standing in clothes marred by his death in the corner of the home that he made for himself. Tentatively, Wilbur held out a potion bottle. Freshly brewed, with the liquid inside still boiling.

“It’s for you.”

The fox grabbed the potion bottle and stared at its contents. When was the last time he spent time with his father this way, with the older man calmly brewing potions while he watched.  _ Definitely was when he was alive _ , Fundy thought, as he set the glass bottle down on a nearby crafting table. He still could not get used to the ghost of his father standing before him, fussing about the kitchen as if he were still material.

“Dad—” Fundy’s voice caught on the word. It’s strange addressing his  _ dead _ father in this way when he had not even spoken to him directly in the months leading to his death. But somehow, death made Wilbur softer, akin to the man that raised Fundy in their shared little cottage by the sea.

Wilbur turned at the sound, his slightly transparent face revealing the cave walls behind him. “Was it okay, Fundy? I know how you said you prefer your potions to cool down. Feeling temperatures is a bit hard for me right now.”

Fundy grimaced, and shook his head. Wilbur had not concerned himself with how Fundy liked his potions since he was a child. “It’s not about that, Wilbur. When you said you don’t remember much, I wanted— I wanted to know what you meant.”

The ghost’s eyes were empty, a pearl white, as they fixated on Fundy’s face. “I wrote down what I remembered, had I not?”

“Yes, I know, I—” Fundy rubbed at his cheeks in an attempt to reset his composure. “You said you remembered me growing up, but, you— Do you not remember anything about… afterward?”

Wilbur’s specter drifted around the kitchen, his blank eyes unreadable. “You know that I am trying.”

Fundy could not feel satisfied with that answer. What was he meant to do with the years of watching his father grow colder and more distant? The memories of watching Wilbur spiral down a corridor of madness over his L’Manburg. All while Fundy stood by his enemy’s side. Recalling his time with the Schlatt administration left a bad taste on Fundy’s tongue. While he’d done so for the sake of the revolution, he could hardly imagine how it must have felt for Wilbur. 

“Do you even want to remember?”

Wilbur looked back at Fundy, before turning back to the next set of potions he was brewing. Fundy awkwardly watched the back of Wilbur’s coat, waiting for an answer that he was not sure he wanted to hear.

Finally, Wilbur spoke up. “It seems important to you.”

It took some effort to suppress an outburst. “Of course it’s important to me. I don’t want you treating me like a little kid even after you’ve died.”

The ghost broke a smile as he spun back around, placing the brewed potions onto the kitchen table. “You never did.” 

“No— WIlbur. You can’t just… waltz in here and ignore everything you and I have done to each other. We can’t pretend like I’m twelve again.” Fundy sat at the table, uncorking one of the potions to take a swig. “I know it’s a tough thing to say to you right now, Dad—”

“You keep calling me ‘Dad’, and I’m not sure why,” Wilbur cut Fundy off, that same soft grin on his bone-white face. “Does that bring you comfort?”

It felt like a knife stuck itself into Fundy’s heart. The potion that was already in his mouth went down harder than rocks. “You— Wilbur… who am I to you?”

The specter tugged at his ear thoughtfully. “I remember being around you whilst you were young. I have memories of seeing you as a child, little snippets of speaking to you. You know, you really have grown so much.”

Fundy slammed the glass bottle down on the table, his furry claws gripping the neck tightly. The old feelings of anger and hurt that he thought he’d suppressed since Wilbur’s funeral surfaced to the brim of his lips in a boiling foam. “Who do you think you are to me?”

If it was possible for ghosts to look sheepish, Wilbur managed it. His worn clothes seemed to consume Wilbur’s slender frame, almost as if it were an attempt to shield his father from Fundy’s rage. “I… don’t know. I just presumed that… perhaps I was a babysitter or a family friend?”

A babysitter? Fundy almost wished that was the case, and all of the hard feelings that he harbored towards his father could be swept away. But the only reason Fundy ever fought for L’Manburg was that it was Wilbur’s country. The only reason Fundy spent time degrading his reputation among his peers to stand by Schlatt’s side was to win back L’Manburg for Wilbur. He watched his father break down from afar rather than avert his eyes  _ because _ it was his father. 

“Wilbur… I…”

“Did this have to do with you calling me ‘Dad’?” Wilbur cut in, and the expression that he wore made Fundy want to leave the room. It was gentle, a face he had not seen since childhood. A face that reminded Fundy of the days that he could look at his father and receive nothing but love and encouragement. There were no traces of the “president” or the “general” or the “homeless lunatic” that Wilbur had become. There was only his father written in the creases of his smile, the slight furrow to his brows, and the broad hands that used to enclose Fundy’s paw entirely. Though Wilbur was an immaterial ghost, Fundy felt the urge to fall into his embrace and feel the beat of his heart that used to lull the young fox to sleep.

Fundy looked away, opened his mouth to speak, then shut it once more. This repeated a couple of times until Fundy could feel the corners of his eyes beginning to water and his nose beginning to run. He pulled up the inner lining of his coat and rubbed his face against it. “That doesn’t matter. This doesn’t matter, Wilbur. I should go.”

“Wait,” Wilbur floated over in front of Fundy as the fox got up to leave. Somehow, he still towered over the fox. In the back of his mind, Fundy remembered seeing Wilbur like this, with his father blocking out the sun because the light hurt his eyes. It was one of their outings by the river, while Wilbur told him about how he’d met Sally. He wondered if Wilbur remembered that day as well.

Fundy stepped back. “What?”

“If it…” Wilbur was careful with his words. “If it’s okay with you… I’m still, uhm, working on remembering as much as I can. And there is, no doubt, things I’ve done to you that I can’t remember and you can’t forgive. I’m not asking for forgiveness right now. But while I am working on knowing what I’ve done, you can…”

The ghost’s words tumbled into silence, and his image flickered like bad reception. “I can… what? What are you saying?” Fundy prompted.

“You can still call me ‘Dad’, if that makes you feel better.” 

Silence. Fundy picked at the cuffs of his jacket, while Wilbur stared at the brewed potions on the table. What would be the right answer here? Pretending like they were a family again as if Fundy had not denounced Wilbur publicly and disowned him as a father? How could he hold Wilbur accountable for faults that he could not remember? 

Was it fair of him to do so?

Fundy turned away and began gathering the potions that Wilbur had brewed for him into his bag.

“Fundy…”

“I have to go. Um, important— important duties for New L’Manburg to tend to. I’ll come by to visit later.” Fundy zipped his bag up and heaved a sigh as he made for the front door. “Thank you for the potions. Take care, Dad.”

The fox did not pause to see what Wilbur looked like as he ran out the door, nor did he know how to bear with any of the possibilities. Instead, he opted to hurry his pace up the ladder into L’Manburg.

Those were questions that he’d have to mull over later, but Fundy still could not resist harboring the slightest fragment of hope. Perhaps Wilbur really did remember the smaller times like the right way to angle his head to block out the sun, or how Fundy preferred his potions on the sweeter side or the right way he used to lay that allowed the young fox to find a comfortable spot against his chest. 

Maybe the need for accountability can be put to the side for a moment, and Wilbur can just simply be his dad.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before Fundy was adopted by Eret ;; Sobbign


End file.
